“On our way where?” says Richard. “The plane isn’t due back at the airstrip for another week.”
Johnny has gathered us around the cold campfire, to tell us what happens next. I look at the other members of our safari, tourists who signed up for a wildlife adventure and got more than they bargained for. A real kill, a dead man. Not exactly the jolly thrills you see on television nature programs. Instead there is a sad burlap sack containing pitifully few bones and shreds of clothing and torn pieces of scalp, all the mortal remains we could find of our tracker Clarence. The rest of him, Johnny says, is lost forever. This is how it is in the bush, where every creature that’s born will ultimately be eaten, digested, and recycled into scat, into soil, into grass. Grazed upon and reborn as yet another animal. It seems beautiful in principle, but when you come face-to-face with the hard reality, that bag of Clarence’s bones, you understand that the circle of life is also a circle of death. We are here to eat and be eaten, and we are nothing but meat. Eight of us left now, meat on the bone, surrounded by carnivores.
“If we drive back to the landing strip now,” says Richard, “we’ll just have to sit there and wait days for the plane. How is that better than continuing the trip as planned?”
“I’m not taking you any deeper into the bush,” says Johnny.
“What about using the radio?” Vivian asks. “You could call the pilot to pick us up early.”
Johnny shakes his head. “We’re beyond radio range here. There’s no way to contact him until we get back to the airstrip, and that’s a three-day drive to the west. Which is why we’ll head east instead. Two days’ hard drive, no stops for sightseeing, and we’ll reach one of the game lodges. They have a telephone, and there’s a road out. I’ll arrange to have you driven back to Maun.”
“Why?” asks Richard. “I hate to sound callous, but there’s not a thing we can do for Clarence now. I don’t see the point of rushing back.”
“You’ll get a refund, Mr. Renwick.”
“It’s not the money. It’s just that Millie and I came all this way from London. Elliot had to come from Boston. Not to mention how far the Matsunagas had to fly.”
“Jesus, Richard,” Elliot cuts in. “The man’s dead.”
“I know, but we’re already here. We might as well carry on.”
“I can’t do that,” says Johnny.
“Why not?”
“I can’t guarantee your safety, much less your comfort. I can’t stay alert twenty-four hours a day. It takes two of us to stand watch overnight and to keep the fire burning. To break camp and set it up again. Clarence didn’t just cook your meals; he was another set of eyes and ears. I need a second man when I’m hauling around people who don’t know a rifle from a walking stick.”
“So teach me. I’ll help you stand watch.” Richard looks around at the rest of us, as if to confirm that he’s the only one who’s man enough for the task.
Mr. Matsunaga says, “I know how to shoot. I can take watch, too.”
We all look at the Japanese banker, whose only shooting skills we’ve witnessed so far have been with his mile-long telephoto lens.
Richard can’t suppress a disbelieving laugh. “You do mean real guns, Isao?”
“I belong to the Tokyo shooting club,” says Mr. Matsunaga, unruffled by Richard’s snide tone. He points to his wife and adds, to our astonishment, “Keiko, she belongs, too.”
“I’m glad that lets me off the hook,” says Elliot. “ ’Cause I don’t even want to touch the damn thing.”
“So you see, we have enough hands on deck,” Richard says to Johnny. “We can take turns on watch and keep the fire going all night. This is what a real safari’s all about, isn’t it? Rising to the occasion. Proving our mettle.”
Oh yes, Richard the expert, who spends his year sitting so heroically at his computer, spinning testosterone-fueled fantasies. Now those fantasies have come true, and he can play the hero of his own thriller. Best of all, he has an audience that includes two gorgeous blondes, who are the ones he’s really playing to, because I’m past the point of being impressed by him, and he knows it.
“A pretty speech, but it changes nothing. Pack up your things, we’re headed east.” Johnny walks away to take down his tent.
“Thank God he’s ending this,” says Elliot.
“He has to.” Richard snorts. “Now that he’s bloody well botched it.”
“You can’t blame him for what happened to Clarence.”
“Who’s ultimately responsible? He hired a tracker he’s never worked with before.” Richard turns to me. “That’s what Clarence told you. Said he’d never worked with Johnny until this trip.”
“But they had connections,” I point out. “And Clarence worked as a tracker before. Johnny wouldn’t have hired him if he wasn’t experienced.”
“That’s what you’d think, but look what happened. Our so-called experienced tracker puts down his rifle and walks into a pack of hyenas. Does that sound like someone who knew what he was doing?”
“What’s the point of all this, Richard?” Elliot asks wearily.
“The point is, we can’t trust his judgment. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, I think Johnny’s right. We can’t just carry on, as you put it. A dead man kind of ruins the mood, you know?” Elliot turns toward his tent. “It’s time to get out of here and go home.”
Home. As I stuff clothes and toiletries into my duffel bag, I think about London and gray skies and cappuccino. In ten days, Africa will seem like a golden-hued dream, a place of heat and glaring sunlight, life and death in all its vivid colors. Yesterday I wanted nothing more than to be back home in our flat, in the land of hot showers. But now that we’re leaving the bush, I feel it holding on to me, its tendrils winding around my ankles, threatening to root me to this soil. I zip up my knapsack, which contains the “essentials,” all the things I thought I absolutely needed to survive in the wild: PowerBars and toilet paper, pre-moistened hand wipes and sunscreen, tampons and my mobile. How different the word essential seems when you’re beyond the reach of any phone tower.
By the time Richard and I have packed up our tent, Johnny has already loaded up the truck with his own gear as well as the cooking equipment and camp chairs. We’ve all been amazingly quick, even Elliot, who struggled to dismantle his tent and needed Vivian and Sylvia to help him fold it. Clarence’s death hangs over us, stifling idle chatter, making us focus on our tasks. When I load our tent into the back of the truck, I notice the burlap bag with Clarence’s remains tucked beside Johnny’s backpack. It unnerves me to see it stowed there, with the rest of our gear. Tents, check. Stove, check. Dead man, check.
I climb into the truck and sit down beside Richard. Clarence’s empty seat is in view, a stark reminder that he’s gone, his bones scattered, flesh digested. Johnny is the last one to climb into the truck, and as his door slams shut I look around at our now cleared campsite, thinking: Soon there’ll be no trace that we were ever here. We’ll have moved on, but Clarence never will.
Suddenly Johnny swears and climbs out of the driver’s seat. Something is wrong.
He stalks to the front and lifts the truck bonnet to inspect the engine. Moments tick by. His head is hidden by the raised bonnet, so we can’t see his face, but his silence alarms me. He offers no reassuring It’s just a loose wire or Yes, I see the problem.
“Now what?” mutters Richard. He, too, climbs out of the truck, although I don’t know what advice he can possibly offer. Beyond reading the petrol gauge, he knows nothing about cars. I hear him offering suggestions. Battery? Spark plugs? Loose connection? Johnny answers in barely audible monosyllables, which only alarms me more, because I’ve learned that the more dire the situation, the quieter Johnny becomes.
It is hot in the open truck, almost noon, with the sun beating down. The rest of us climb out and move into the shade of the trees. I see Johnny’s head pop up as he orders: “Don’t wander too far!” Not that anyone intends to; we’ve seen wha
t can happen when you do. Mr. Matsunaga and Elliot join Richard at the truck, to offer their advice, because of course all men, even men who never get their hands greasy, understand machinery. Or think they do.
We women wait in the shade, swatting away bugs, continually searching for any telltale trembling in the grass, which could be our only warning that a predator approaches. Even in the shade, it is hot, and I settle onto the ground. Through the branches above I see vultures circling, watching us. They are strangely beautiful, black wings sketching lazy loops in the sky as they wait to feast. On what?
Richard stalks toward us, muttering: “Well, this is a brilliant development. Bloody thing won’t start. Won’t even turn over.”
I sit up straight. “It was fine yesterday.”
“Everything was fine yesterday.” Richard huffs out a breath. “We’re stranded.”
The blondes give simultaneous gasps of alarm. “We can’t be stranded,” blurts Sylvia. “I’m due back at work next Thursday!”
“Me, too!” says Vivian.
Mrs. Matsunaga shakes her head in disbelief. “How can this be? It is not possible!”
As their voices blend into a chorus of rising agitation, I can’t help noticing that the vultures overhead are tracing tighter and tighter circles, as if homing in on our distress.
“Listen. All of you, listen,” Johnny commands.
We turn to look at him.
“This is not the time to panic,” he says. “There’s absolutely no reason to. We’re next to the river, so we have plenty of water. We have shelter. We have ammunition and a ready supply of game for food.”
Elliot gives a laugh that’s thin with fear. “So … what? We hang around out here and go all Stone Age?”
“The plane is scheduled to meet you at the landing strip in a week. When we don’t show up as expected, there’ll be a search. They’ll find us soon enough. It’s what you all signed up for, isn’t it? An authentic experience in the bush?” He regards us one by one, taking our measure, deciding if we’re up to the challenge. Searching for which one of us will crumble, which one he can count on. “I’ll keep working on the truck. Maybe I can fix it, maybe I can’t.”
“Do you even know what’s wrong with it?” Elliot asks.
Johnny pins him with a hard glare. “It’s never broken down before. I can’t explain it.” He scans our circle, as if searching for the answer in our faces. “In the meantime, we need to pitch camp again. Get out the tents. This is where we stay.”
SIX
BOSTON
PSYCHOLOGISTS CALL IT RESISTANCE WHEN A PATIENT FAILS TO TURN UP on time because he doesn’t really want to address his problems. It also explained why Jane was late walking out her front door that morning; she really didn’t want to view Leon Gott’s autopsy. She took her time dressing her daughter in the same Red Sox T-shirt and grass-stained overalls that Regina had insisted on wearing for the past five days. They lingered too long over their breakfast of Lucky Charms and toast, which made them twenty minutes late walking out the apartment door. Add a traffic-choked drive to Revere, where Jane’s mother lived, and by the time she pulled up outside Angela’s house, Jane was a full half hour behind schedule.
Her mother’s house seemed smaller every year, as though it were shrinking with age. Walking up to the front door with Regina in tow, Jane saw that the porch needed fresh paint, the gutters were clogged with autumn leaves, and the perennials in front still needed to be clipped back for the winter. She’d have to get on the phone with her brothers and see if they could all pitch in for a weekend, because Angela obviously needed the help.
She could also use a good night’s sleep, thought Jane when Angela opened the front door. Jane was startled by how tired her mother looked. Everything about her seemed worn down, from her faded blouse to her baggy jeans. When Angela bent down to pick up Regina, Jane spotted gray roots on her mother’s scalp, a startling sight because Angela was meticulous about her hairdresser appointments. Was this the same woman who’d shown up at a restaurant just last summer wearing red lipstick and spike heels?
“Here’s my little pumpkin,” Angela cooed as she carried Regina into the house. “Nonna’s so glad to see you. Let’s go shopping today, why don’t we? Aren’t you tired of these dirty overalls? We’ll buy you something new and pretty.”
“Don’t like pretty!”
“A dress, what do you think? A fancy princess dress.”
“Don’t like princess.”
“But every girl wants to be a princess!”
“I think she’d rather be the frog,” said Jane.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, she’s just like you.” Angela sighed in frustration. “You wouldn’t let me put you in a dress, either.”
“Not everyone’s a princess, Ma.”
“Or ends up with Prince Charming,” muttered Angela as she walked away carrying her granddaughter.
Jane followed her into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to make some more coffee. You want some?”
“Ma, I can see that something’s going on.”
“You’ve gotta go to work.” Angela set Regina in her high chair. “Go, catch some bad guys.”
“Is it too much work for you, babysitting? You know you don’t have to do it. She’s old enough for day care now.”
“My granddaughter in day care? Not gonna happen.”
“Gabriel and I have been talking about it. You’ve already done so much for us, and we think you deserve a break. Enjoy your life.”
“She is the one thing I look forward to every day,” said Angela, pointing to her granddaughter. “The one thing that keeps my mind off …”
“Dad?”
Angela turned away and began filling the coffee reservoir with water.
“Ever since he came back,” said Jane, “I haven’t seen you look happy. Not one single day.”
“It’s gotten so complicated, having to make a choice. I’m getting pulled back and forth, stretched like taffy. I wish someone would just tell me what to do, so I wouldn’t have to choose between them.”
“You’re the one who has to make the choice. Dad or Korsak. I think you should choose the man who makes you happy.”
Angela turned a tormented face to hers. “How can I be happy if I spend the rest of my life feeling guilty? Having your brothers tell me that I chose to break up the family?”
“You didn’t choose to walk out. Dad did.”
“And now he’s back and he wants us all to be together again.”
“You have a right to move on.”
“When both my sons are insisting I give your father another chance? Father Donnelly says it’s what a good wife should do.”
Oh great, thought Jane. Catholic guilt was the most powerful guilt of all.
Jane’s cell phone rang. She glanced down and saw it was Maura calling; she let it go to voice mail.
“And poor Vince,” said Angela. “I feel guilty about him, too. All the wedding plans we made.”
“It could still happen.”
“I don’t see how, not now.” Angela sagged back against the kitchen counter as the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed behind her. “Last night I finally told him. Janie, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.” And it showed on her face. The puffy eyes, the drooping mouth—was this the new and future Angela Rizzoli, sainted wife and mother?
There are already too many martyrs in the world, thought Jane. The idea that her mother would willingly join those legions made her angry.
“Ma, if this decision makes you miserable, you need to remember that it’s your decision. You’re choosing not to be happy. No one can make you do that.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. You’re the one in control, and you have to take the wheel.” Her phone pinged with a text message, and she saw it was Maura again. STARTING AUTOPSY. RU COMING?
“Go on, go to work.” Angela waved her away. “You don’t need to bother yo
urself with this.”
“I want you to be happy, Ma.” Jane turned to leave, then looked back at Angela. “But you have to want it, too.”
It was a relief for Jane to step outside, take a breath of fresh cold air, and purge the gloom of the house from her lungs. But she couldn’t shake off her annoyance at her dad, at her brothers, at Father Donnelly, at every man who presumed to tell a woman what her duty was.
When her phone rang again, she answered with an irritated: “Rizzoli!”
“Uh, it’s me,” said Frost.
“Yeah, I’m on my way to the morgue. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“You’re not there already?”
“I got held up at my mom’s. Why aren’t you there?”
“I thought it might be more efficient if I, uh, followed up on a few other things.”
“Instead of barfing into a sink all morning. Good choice.”
“I’m still waiting for the phone carrier to release Gott’s call log. Meantime, here’s something interesting I pulled off Google. Back in May, Gott was featured in Hub Magazine. Title of the article was: ‘The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.’ ”
“Yeah, I saw a framed copy of that interview hanging in his house. It’s all about his hunting adventures. Shooting elephants in Africa, elk in Montana.”
“Well, you should read the online comments about that article. They’re posted on the magazine’s website. Apparently, he got the lettuce eaters—that’s what Gott called the anti-hunting crowd—all pissed off. Here’s one comment, posted by Anonymous: ‘Leon Gott should be hung and gutted, like the fucking animal he is.’ ”
“Hung and gutted? That sounds like a threat,” she said.
“Yeah. And maybe someone delivered.”
WHEN JANE SAW WHAT was displayed on the morgue table, she almost turned and walked right back out again. Even the sharp odor of formalin could not mask the stench of the viscera splayed across the steel table. Maura wore no respiratory hood, only her usual mask and plastic face guard. She was so focused on the intellectual puzzle posed by the entrails that she seemed immune to the smell. Standing beside her was a tall man with silvery eyebrows whom Jane did not recognize, and like Maura he was eagerly probing the array of viscera.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 316
